Oh, Fudge (Hot Cakes #5) - Erin Nicholas Page 0,35

just like the blob of marshmallow fluff in the pot.

“How much longer?” he asked, sliding his finger lower and teasing her opening.

Her knees wobbled slightly, and she had to take a second before cracking one eye—not realizing her eyes were shut—and peeking at the timer. “Just another minute.”

He slid his finger into her and she gasped, clutching the counter.

“Stir, Paige,” he said softly, moving his finger in and out.

“You’re so mean,” she said, practically whispering.

“You want me to stop?” he asked, sliding deeper. “Really?”

“No. God, no.” She stirred a little faster and focused on not coming.

But damn, he was so good at this. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been with a guy who got her going the way he did.

She was never going to be able to make fudge without thinking of this.

The timer went off, the beeping the best sound she’d ever heard.

“I have to move,” she said, picking the pot up from the burner.

He did remove his hands from her body, which she definitely regretted, but as she poured the liquid fudge from the pot into the rectangular pan to set, she heard the rustle of clothes and glanced over her shoulder to find him toeing his boots off and shrugging out of his shirt.

She stopped and stared. Yes. God, she loved this man naked.

Something sharp stung her foot and she jumped, looking to find that fudge was dripping from the spoon in her hand onto her foot.

Dammit!

She quickly dumped the pot and spoon in the sink and checked the cake pan. The fudge was spread evenly, and she, somehow, hadn’t burned it. She carried it to the fridge and slid it onto the lowest shelf. Then she turned to Mitch, pulling her shirt up and over her head.

“Anyone else coming over?” he asked, his hot gaze on her breasts and his hands on his fly.

“Grandpa’s been here and gone.”

“That’s great news.”

She watched him unzip and shove his jeans to the floor, kicking them off. Behind the plain black boxers, he was huge and hard. And she was suddenly hotter than she’d ever been.

She slipped out of her yoga pants leaving them in the middle of the kitchen floor. Naked, she padded to him.

“Now what?” she asked, stopping right in front of him and looking up at him.

“You’ll do anything I want?” he asked, his voice rough and his eyes hot.

“Definitely.”

“How hot is the fudge?”

Her eyes widened. “Hot. Too hot for smearing on body parts,” she said, reading his mind.

One side of his mouth curled. “Damn.”

“But,” she said, “I have some fudge we could heat up a little.”

“You have some already made?” he asked. “Why was I waiting for you to stir that up?”

“The fudge I’ve already got is for you.” She felt her cheeks get a little pink. She was shy about this? She was buck naked at the moment, and he’d done a lot of intimate things to her already, but admitting she’d made him fudge made her blush?

“You made me fudge?”

Dammit. He looked pleased by that. He was so going to get the wrong idea. Especially when she told him the whole story. She sighed. “Yeah. I made it around Christmas. I was going to mail it to you but then… I changed my mind.”

“You were going to send me fudge for Christmas?” he asked, his grin growing. He lifted a hand to her cheek.

“Yes. But then I realized that you’d think it meant I liked you and was thinking about you,” she said with an eye roll.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping and that drawl becoming more pronounced. “I know you like me and have been thinking of me.”

He was cocky. A little. Not overly. Not obnoxiously. But enough to be… hot. She did like confident men. “Well, you can not think that the fact that it’s chipotle fudge means anything,” she said.

His grin definitely grew with that. “You made me spicy fudge?”

“Spicy and sweet go together really well.”

He nodded, his grin turning into an almost smirk. “They sure do.”

“But it was just something I wanted to try, and since you eat all that crazy spicy food I thought you were someone I could send it to.”

“But then you realized that I’d think it meant you liked me.”

She blew out a breath. “Yeah.”

“Do you normally make chipotle fudge?”

“No.”

“Huh.”

“You’re thinking it, aren’t you?”

“That you like me? Yeah, I’m thinking it.”

“Well, if you’re going to be all smug about it, I’m not going to melt it down and coat your cock with it